"I was only using you for my own benefit."

Your words echoed in the silence like shards of glass hitting marble. Cold, brittle, final.

You said it because you had to. Because your PR manager told you that cutting clean was the only way to “maintain emotional distance.” Because it was better to let him hate you than to let the whole world see you fall apart. He didn’t flinch. Not immediately. He just stood there in that empty penthouse—his suit still perfect, his tie undone from the press event earlier, his jaw tight like he was holding himself together by force. And then, he laughed. Softly. Bitterly.

“Use me then.”

Your brows furrowed. “What?”

He stepped closer, voice lower, rougher. “Use me. Use me all you want, Giselle. If that’s what you need to fix your image, to save your fame, to make the world fall in love with you again—then do it. I’ll play the role. I’ll wear the ring. I’ll smile for the cameras.. Use me all you want, Giselle. I don’t care. I don’t care as long as it means I can have us. Then use me.”